


Brewing Bad

by wickilui



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - No Cancer, Alternate Universe - No Meth, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:55:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25603174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickilui/pseuds/wickilui
Summary: “Listen. You don’t make the coffee. I make the coffee. It’s the best goddamn product in the city and I’m not going to let you screw it up. Your job is to handle distribution.”“...You mean, the cash register?”The no cancer, no meth coffeeshop AU that everyone really really wanted.
Relationships: Jesse Pinkman & Walter White
Comments: 9
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

“Jesse, you have to turn your life around!”

It’s like one p.m., how does this bitch (my mom) get this wound up this early in the day? It’s a fucking mystery to me. Some of us like to appreciate the mornings, you know?

“How the eff am I supposed to do that,” I grind out, grabbing a box of Cheerios from the pantry.

“I’ve set up a job interview for you at the coffee shop on King Street. Tomorrow, nine a.m. sharp - and don’t wear those gangbanger clothes!”

I scowl. I don’t even drink fucking coffee. It gives me a stomachache. “Hold down a job or we’ll kick you out.” They’re always setting these fucking ultimatums - I work. I fucking hustle. I do shit but it’s not up to their fucking standards. I even have a website! It’s actually not that hard to code, I learned how in like two seconds just from Finder Spydering it. I’m not that fucking stupid, OK? I just hate wearing a fucking uniform. Having a manager tell me what to do.

My brother’s lurking around the corner as usual, listening in. “Shouldn’t you be doing your homework or some shit?” I spit at him. He doesn’t answer. I don’t know if he looks up to me or hates me at that moment. Can’t read his eyes. Whatever.

Fine. I’ll do it. Don’t have anywhere to crash anymore if she kicks me out now that Paul got hitched. Fucking weird as shit. We should get the band together sometime. 

* * *

  
  


The next morning, 8:49am, I wake up - it’s my brother, practicing his goddamn violin. But whatever, at least it got me up, I definitely forgot to set an alarm. Fucking button down shirt just so I can sling lattes at white chicks. I’m out the door and make it to Brewing Bad just 4 minutes late. Worst branding ever, by the way. 

This bald old guy in glasses is skulking behind the counter. He looks unimpressed by my tie, which I think is fine. It takes me a second and then I’m like - oh fuck. I know this guy. Not this fucking guy. Mr. “you can do better” White, from high school chem.

“Mr. White,” I say. “What are you doing here?”

He stares at me like I’m the biggest idiot of all time. “Jesse Pinkman. I’m the manager,” he says. “Your mother set up an interview?” (He’s smirking. Smug ass old man.) “Nine o’clock sharp?”

“Yeah. So, my resume...” Did I bring my resume? Hell yeah I did. I pull it out of my pocket and unfold it. “Just take a look.”

He pinches it between two fingers like it’s a piece of garbage and glances down at it without his expression changing literally at all. Is he even reading it?

“DeVry University, huh?”

“Yeah. Data systems management.”

“Well, I don’t particularly want to hire you, seeing as I know what your ‘work ethic’ has been like in the past, but -”

“Yo, man, that was in, like, high school. You can’t judge me just by what I was like in high school. I’m getting a degree online, and shit, and, like, I was in a band - that shows teamwork. We actually sold a decent number of CDs. And I’m, like, always hustling, finding business opportunities and shit. Self starter. Just look at my resume. Shit is popping.”

“Right. Popping. Like I was going to say, I don’t really want to hire you, but your mother insisted I give you a chance, and I’m short-handed. We could use someone to work the early shift.”

“...Early? Like how early?”

“Well, this is a coffee shop, so you’ll have to be here at five am, so we can open at six.”

I must look pretty stunned because he gets even fucking smugger.

“We are serving people who are on their way to their  _ jobs _ ,” he emphasizes. Christ, I couldn’t get a break. 

“Oh, yeah, totally, I understand, I get that. Totally. I was just thinking, like, an hour to open up, you know, I’m an efficient guy - I bet I could cut that down to like, half an hour, quarter. You won’t be disappointed, Mr. White.”

He doesn’t care. He hands me back my resume and is like, “Alright. We’ll see how this goes. You’ll be filling out a few forms - do you know your social security number? Be here at five am tomorrow. And wear black pants and a black shirt, I’ll get you an apron tomorrow morning.”

Wait, what? I got the job - fuck, is that a good thing? Well, I’m not homeless. But if I was homeless I wouldn’t have to deal with this old bitch at five am in the morning. Guess it couldn’t hurt to celebrate a little though. “Yeah, dawg! Let’s get brewing! Can’t wait, man.”

I don’t know if this guy’s face works. If I had tried to high five him, he definitely would have left me hanging. But I didn’t cuz I’m good at reading people and shit.


	2. Chapter 2

Bright and fucking early, I’m ready to rock. Mr. White gives me my apron and a nametag, barely looks me in the eyes, and starts fiddling with all the coffee equipment. It’s insanely complicated-looking. Like I know we’re not gonna just pop a cup into a Keurig, but all these flasks and tubes and shit, like, is it because he was a chem teacher or what? 

“Morning, Mr. White.” He mutters a hello. “Hey, uh, I’m ready to make some coffee, man.” No reply. “So... how does this whole system work? Like, no offense, not questioning your methods or whatever, but when my mom makes coffee, it’s just like - ”

Now he does look at me, with his fucking shark eyes. I back up a bit. Woah, Jesus. “Listen. You don’t make the coffee. I make the coffee. It’s the best goddamn product in the city and I’m not going to let you screw it up. Your job is to handle distribution.”

“...You mean, the cash register?”

“Yes, the cash register, the customers, wiping down tables, that sort of thing.” Grunt work, in other words.

Then he’s explaining the cash register all in teacher-voice mode, which is unnerving as hell (and, honestly? Lowkey nostalgic) because he was just looking at me like he wanted to murder me or some shit. Really defensive over his product, I guess. Got it. I can handle a cash register, I mean, I’m like, 23. It’s just about six am by the time he’s done showing me where to put the mop (the mop closet, who’d’ve guessed), and there are legit like five people who are up at the asscrack of dawn to pick up their cappuccinos or whatever. Well, I’m here to sell it to them.

The first guy is this bald cop who barks, “Just the usual, Walt,” as soon as he barges in the door. ‘Walt’ is in the back room. I’m standing here, and I’m wearing a goddamn nametag. 

“Uh, sorry, sir, what’s that? I, uh, just started here.”

“Rookie, huh?” He chuckles in this scratchy like, heh-heh-heh way. So he’s gonna give me a fucking hard time too. “Well, every morning, I like to have a  _ large _ ,  _ black _ coffee. Two sugars on the side, no cream. And you know what, I skipped breakfast, throw in a strawberry donut.”

“Dope, that’ll be 9.47... here’s your change... alright, what’ll the name be on that order?”

“Hank. Hank Schrader.” I didn’t ask for a last name but okay. I just scribble “Hank” on the cup, hand him his donut, and glance behind me to see if Mr. White is back so I can pass over the order to him. No fucking luck, obviously. Okay, I stick the receipt on the little spike thingy on the counter. Next customer. It’s this goth chick with bangs who orders a medium latte. I can respect that. “Jane.”

“Jane, huh?” I grin at her. She smiles back. I have a great smile, so, yeah.

“Are you new here?”

“Yeah, just started, morning shift.”

“Well, I’m here every morning, so I guess I’ll be seeing you.”

Nice. “Totally.”

Mr. White emerges from the back room and he looks pissed. 

“Sup? We got a couple orders, man. Time to get cooking. I mean brewing.”

“Jesse, I don’t pay you to flirt with these people, and I don’t pay you to chat. And fix your nametag.” He starts putting the shit into the shit and steaming the beans or whatever it is he’s doing. (There really is a lot of steam going on. There’s this, fume hood or something attached to the ceiling that’s gotta be industrial-sized.)

Rest of the day is pretty dece. I take the orders, Mr. White brews the product. Honestly it’s awkward because we’re still in, like, student-teacher mode, although, what’s he gonna do? Send me to detention? Fire me, I guess. Actually, that would be a lot worse than detention, because I would also be homeless. Speaking of homeless, my mom is annoyingly smug about me coming home in my new digs. My coffee digs. 

“Well isn’t it nice to see you finally applying yourself!” she says. Yeah, whatever, like I didn’t already have my own fucking band, which was way more effort than standing there writing names on cups. But maybe tomorrow I’ll see that goth girl again. Jane. I bet I could go like, slightly goth for her. 

“Are you liking the free coffee?” my dad chimes in, all merry and shit. They don’t even know that coffee gives me the shits. Although, come to think of it, Mr. White didn’t even offer me any. Pretty sure they get a free drink at Starbucks. Prick. 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s dope,” I grouse. My perfect brother looks at me all calmly from over his baby genius homework, like he’s about to pose a fucking riddle. “What?” I say.

He shrugs and goes back to writing formulas in his little notebook, which is so fucking neat he could’ve printed it out. Maybe someday he’ll know how to make fancy ass coffee like Mr. White. He could do anything. I mean, I could, too. I just have better shit to be doing, yo.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Walt's POV.

It doesn’t work out. The numbers, I’ve run them, Skyler’s run them (well, she’s our unofficial accountant, so it stands to reason), and essentially, we are flying by the seat of our pants through til the end of the financial year. We don’t come up with something, we’re dead in the water.  
  
I knead my fingers into my temples, try to ward off the steadily-growing headache. This coffeeshop... it’s mine. I laid down the gleaming hardwood floors, screwed in every lightbulb, installed every piece of equipment ordered specially from Italy, Turkey, Greece. Failure is not an option. I don’t even know what failure would mean. Skyler, with the second baby on the way - we couldn’t take the loss. Starbuckses and McDonaldses closing in around us on every corner. Now we cross the Rubicon. Come what may.  
  
I come into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Skyler’s eyes are casually averted as she applies her lotion, which means she is about to say something she knows I don’t want to hear. “So,” she begins lightly, “Elliott called. They’re celebrating their new opening.”  
  
“Really,” I say, trying to sound mildly enthusiastic. I’m looking into the mirror, not at her.  
  
“And he’s having a little get-together at his place. Friday. You know, I haven’t seen Gretchen in ages. Might be nice to, you know, catch up? Get all this off your mind?”  
  
A microsecond to decide how to react. I’ll give in. If Skyler wants this it’s easiest to let it happen. “Sure - yes, that sounds nice. Friday. Alright then.”  
  
She smiles tightly. “You need to relax, Walt. Anyways, he’s in your line of work. You can, you know, brainstorm ideas. If you need to.”  
  
“Yes, yes... of course.” I replace my toothbrush in its stand and go to sit on the bed. She comes over and touches my shoulder. She can feel the tension, I’m sure; though I try to mask it in my expression it remains in my muscles. The weight.  
  
My shoulders are just as stiff under my uncomfortably crisp button-down shirt as we pull into the Schwartz’s winding driveway that Friday. Skyler’s face is bright on the surface, though I can detect the stress lingering beneath. She cradles a bottle of wine.  
  
“Walt! Very good to see you!” Elliott opens the door wide, casually clad in chinos and a tasteful cardigan. “Skyler - wow, you are glowing. How have you been?”  
  
“Just fine, Elliott - it’s so great to see you!” Skyler replies. “Is Gretchen in there?”  
  
“In the back. Walt, you have got to see this.” Some new high-end contraption located on his wraparound patio, no doubt. “This smoker, it makes the most _incredible_ brisket.” Lovely.

  


* * *

  


Back in CalTech, Elliott and I lived off the acrid slop they served at the coffee shop closest to the library. Two sugars for him, black for me, was how we kept our eyes open through long nights of molecular mechanics and vibrational spectroscopy. By junior year we had gotten sick of coughing up the money for refills and had taken the matter into our own hands, obsessively crafting a perfectly smooth, balanced blend from sourcing the beans, the roast, the temperatures, humidity, timing, aeration. By the time we reached grad school, we parted ways; I went into teaching when my son was born, and Elliott got a position at a firm where his brilliant innovations procured him the money to afford his sprawling McMansion on the other side of town.  
  
But six years ago, he spawned a ridiculous side project. He had written down the recipe behind our perfect cup of coffee, and partnered with his wife to start a coffee chain. Black Matter. The location, in a run-down part of town, faltered for months and seemed on the brink of closure when it quickly took off thanks to some sort of viral online review. And so Black Matter was not only pulled out of oblivion - it multiplied. A location here, there, and suddenly Black Matter made headlines as a chain with real potential for nationwide expansion.  
  
Because of _my_ formula.  
  
Elliott had written down the techniques and sources that I had procured. And I had not, thinking it was some mere undergraduate lark. When the school I taught at was shut down because of a drug bust scandal (a teacher had, in a fit of temporary insanity, decided to pilfer chemistry equipment so he could cook meth with some dropout junkie he used to teach) - suddenly my days stretched before me, and I was on a job hunt again.  
  
We were this close to relocating for a teaching position in Oregon when the housing market collapsed. We couldn’t afford to take such a huge loss on the house. No one was buying. When the inheritance from Skyler’s mother came in, I knew it was my last chance. I could see the beans running through my hands, smell the rich aroma of roasting a perfect batch in the dark of early dawn. I couldn’t just recreate the Black Matter formula. I could improve on it, _destroy_ it.  
  
I opened Brewing Bad.


End file.
